


nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

by hakyeonni



Series: ashes to ashes [1]
Category: VIXX
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Beaches, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: they started this as a way to chase away their demons, but sometimes wonshik thinks taekwoon is a demon of his own creation.





	nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is the first (of mine) in an ongoing series and collaboration with my friend [wutangs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wutangs). we wanted to write prompts with each other so we came up with the concept of a ["fixtape"](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fixtape)—we take turns giving each other prompts in the forms of songs and then write a fic to that prompt. 
> 
> the prompt for this one is [talk show host by radiohead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=furluVy2xbg&ab_channel=Simstar911) (most known for being in the film romeo + juliet). I drew from both the song and from that mental image of that film for this fic.
> 
> edit: this is the first fic in an assassin au i'm currently planning. wontaek's storyline takes place in busan~

“I’m going away.”

Taekwoon’s voice is quiet—ever-quiet, too-quiet, _quiet_. He’s playing with his gun. Wonshik knows that means he’s nervous. Knows that he likes the heavy weight of it in his hands, knows that it’s comforting. He can’t understand, but he tries to. Tried.

“Are you going, or are they sending you?”

There’s a long silence, broken only by the distant sound of waves and the cries of seagulls overhead. Wonshik looks up at them and wishes, although for what he’s not sure. Wishes for another life, maybe. Wishes he’d never met Taekwoon. He takes that one back as quickly as he thinks it.

“They’re sending me.”

Wonshik waits for him to say something more—“I’ll miss you”, perhaps, or “I’ll come back to you”. But this thing that they’ve had has never been about useless platitudes—about lies—and so Taekwoon continues staring out at the sea, his gaze unflinching, unwavering.

Wonshik never pictured he’d be the one turning and walking away from this. When they’d started this thing he’d always known, in the pit of his stomach, that Taekwoon would be the one to leave. But that’s exactly what he does, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction as he goes. _One up that_ , he thinks, and turns and walks away from Taekwoon.

The heavy weight of his gun, holstered to his side, is a reminder that there is only one thing he can rely on in this life.

And it’s sure as hell not Taekwoon.

//

He’s still covered in blood—he hates that, _hates_ it. The messiness is nice, sometimes, when he’s in the mood for it. But tonight he’s stroppy and pissed and the first thing that he wants to do when he gets home is shower, so that’s what he does, heading for the bathroom. He makes it halfway before he hears a noise and turns, his gun in his hand before he can even think about reaching for it, finger on the trigger.

“Wonshik.” It’s Taekwoon, and he drops his gun. The light switches on and Taekwoon’s standing there, looking just the same even though it’s been months. Longish hair that falls over his forehead. Silver earrings. Wearing all black, of course; their uniform. He has a healing cut on his cheek and his lips are so pink that Wonshik has to remind himself to _breathe_ , goddamn it. His gun is holstered to his side, and from here Wonshik can see the dark crimson of the grip. “Wonshik,” Taekwoon says again, taking a step forward.

He turns away. “I don’t recall ever inviting you in.”

A moot point, since Taekwoon could break into any place blindfolded, as could he. “I thought you’d be happy to see me,” comes the reply as Wonshik’s heading into the kitchen.

That makes him pause. Taekwoon sounds—he almost sounds like he _cares_. He sounds _put-out_. He sounds like he’d expected Wonshik to be pining after him. He turns and sees Taekwoon standing at the head of his table, shoulders rounded. Oh, how the tables have turned. “I am,” he lies, and takes a step closer. “It’s been months. You never sent word.”

Taekwoon opens his mouth, closes it again, grimaces. “They sent me to—to—”

Wonshik takes another step closer. Close enough to touch, so he does, reaching out and trailing his hand across the side of Taekwoon’s face, shutting him up. This had started as a distraction from work, from the bodies they left in their wake. He’d never expected it to evolve. “Did you miss me?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully empty.

Dark eyes flick up and meet his. An impossibly pink tongue wets equally pink lips, and Wonshik shifts. “Of course.”

 _Come and get me_ , his eyes say. Wonshik does. He closes the distance between them in a kiss that he’d intended to be soft, but morphs into heated halfway—he meets Taekwoon’s lips with a ferocity that they both get lost in, reaching for each other. They strip and fuck right there on the kitchen floor like animals, taking turns to grind into each other, making each other hoarse.

Wonshik almost catches himself wishing they’d met in another life, at another time; they could be so good, so _so_ good. But when Taekwoon twists under his touch, his back arching on the tiles, and the scar across his heart catches the light—he stops. They are what they are, creatures of circumstance and nothing more. Meaningless. They are meaningless.

//

“If someone ordered a hit on me,” he says later, when they’re sweaty and sticky and still haven’t moved from the kitchen floor, “would you do it?”

He sees the indecision on Taekwoon’s face, and it frightens him. He’d expected a swift _no_ —Taekwoon is job first, always. But he chews his lip and doesn’t speak for a while, and the fear in Wonshik’s heart grows. _Don’t give in_ , he thinks, silently begging Taekwoon not to speak. _Don’t be vulnerable. I can’t handle it if you’re vulnerable._

The answer is a jolt to his heart, worse than the day they’d cut him there: “No,” Taekwoon says quietly, unable to meet his eyes. “I—I couldn’t. Could you?”

Wonshik gives himself a moment to pause. “No,” he lies, and turns away to reach for his clothes.

//

This time it’s him sitting on the beach, gun in hand. He unloads the magazine, reloads it, cocks it. The design of the cross on the grip is usually a balm to his soul, a reminder that he’s doing the right thing; today it just makes him feel sick.

“They’re sending me away,” he mutters when he feels Taekwoon approach from behind him.

Silence. The waves, the scream of seagulls. Products of circumstance. Is this all they are doomed to be? “Oh.” A heartbeat of indecision, and then Taekwoon touches him on the shoulder. “Don’t get killed.”

A useless platitude. And what they have is, of course, _not_ about useless platitudes. He shrugs Taekwoon’s touch off and slams the magazine back in his gun once more. “If I’m lucky,” he replies hoarsely, deliberately being vague. It would be nice if one of his targets managed to take him out. He feels nothing, these days; the end calls.

Taekwoon goes, turning and traipsing away back over the sand, and it takes everything in Wonshik not to turn and watch him go.


End file.
